Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [149]
“Turn for the worse, eh? I’m quite devastated. Prostrate with grief, truly. More champagne here!” Simkin called. The audience roared.
“Simkin, let me —” began Joram, pushing his way around once more. But Simkin cut Joram off casually, reached out a hand, and caught hold of another young man — one of the general crowd standing nearby.
“Marquis d’Ettue. Charmed.”
The young Marquis was charmed as well.
“Here’s this young woman, pining to dance with you. It’s that shrimp-color jacket you’re wearing. Quite bowls women over. My dear, the Marquis.” And, before she could utter a protest, Gwendolyn found her hand passed from Simkin into the hand of an equally astonished Marquis.
“But I —” Gwen protested weakly, looking at Joram over her shoulder.
“Simkin, damn you —” Joram again attempted to intercede, his face dark with impatience and frustration and the glimmerings of anger.
“Pleasure of this dance —” the Marquis stammered.
“Charming couple. Off you go!” said Simkin gaily, literally propelling the startled Gwendolyn into the Marquis’s shrimp-colored arms. “Oh, there you are,” he said, glancing around at the glowering Joram in affected surprise. “Where have you been, dear boy? There’s your sweetheart, gone off to dance with another man.”
More laughter.
Joram glared at him furiously. “Will you —”
“— comfort you in your afflicted state? Certainly. Give us a few moments alone, will you?” Simkin asked the assembled multitude, who obligingly — and with many smiles at Joram’s expense — wandered off in search of new amusement. “Champagne, follow me!” Gesturing to several glasses perched on the rim of the flowing fountain, Simkin put his arm through Joram’s and drew him over near the crystal wall, three bubbling champagne glasses dutifully bobbing along in his wake.
“What have you done?” Joram demanded angrily. “I’ve been searching for Gwendolyn for hours and now you —”
“Dear fellow, keep your voice down,” Simkin said, the merriment and gaiety snuffed out of his face. “It was necessary to speak to you privately and immediately about the catalyst.”
“Poor Saryon,” Joram said, his face darkening, the black brows coming together. “I shouldn’t have left him last night, but the Theldara assured me he was healing —”
“And so he is, dear boy,” Simkin interrupted.
Joram tensed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean They have got him, old chap.” Simkin smiled, but it was a smile for the crowd alone. Moistening his lips with champagne, he glanced nervously about the hall. “And we could be next.”
Joram suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The air in this room had been in the lungs of too many others already. His heart pounded painfully, as though trying to squeeze the last bit of oxygen from his chest. There was a buzzing in his ears and, once again, he couldn’t hear anything.
“I say, steady. Have a sip. People watching. Fun and merriment, remember?”
Joram saw Simkin’s lips move and felt a glass thrust into his hand. His mouth was dry, he lifted it to his lips, and the bubbles of the wine burst on his tongue, cooling his throat. “Are you sure?” he managed to ask, taking a breath and struggling to regain his composure. “What if he really were taken ill …”
“Bah! The catalyst was perfectly well when we left. Apart from that, I’ve never known a Theldara to get a sudden urge to examine a patient in the middle of the night. But the Duuk-tsarith? …” Simkin’s voice trailed off ominously.
“He won’t betray me,” Joram said in a low tone.
Simkin shrugged. “He may not have any choice.”
Joram’s lips tightened, his hands clenched. “I’m not leaving!” he said flatly. “Not until I’ve talked to this Druidess Lord Samuels promised to bring! And besides” — his brow cleared, he raised his head — “it won’t matter. Soon I’ll be a Baron. Then everything will be all right.”
“Of course. Very well, if you’re satisfied. Just